One of my worst experiences. Ever

Yesterday, I had one of the worst experiences of my life. Late at night, I went out into the garden to secure the chicken hutch and was stopped in my tracks by a truly revolting noise. I’m not going to describe it as I don’t want to upset you, dear readers. However, what I will say is – as a wife and mother of three boys, I have heard some pretty gruesome noises including:

1. High-octane exploding bowels.  This was after about a month of constipation when I doubled-dosed one of the young masters on constipation-relief medicine. The memory of this sound and the picturesque splattering adorning the bath (the toilet was too small to accommodate the outpourings) will stay with me forever.

2. Severe nauseating and overpowering flatulence.  After the consumption of burnt beef curry by someone who is not me and not my children. (Work it out.)

3. The screams of childbirth. These were not my own which would have been preferable. After having spent 24 hours in labour, I was wheeled to the maternity ward, exhausted and with assets resembling an imploded jam roly poly, I did NOT enjoy listening to the screams of the woman in the labour ward below who had either:

 a) given birth to triplets

 b) an alien

 c) finally worked out that sex leads to a life-time of misery.

So these were all pretty horrific sounds.

However, they do not compare to the sound that accompanies the discovery that one of your chickens has died and is being eaten by the garden hedgehog.

I will never feel the same about Mr Hedgehog again.

Hands up who likes chicken. Bastard.